


Pot Committed

by emmaliza



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Angst and Porn, Complicated Relationships, Denial, Glory Hole, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:02:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27518068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Avon could never give himself to Blake. He could never give Blake that power over him.Better he give himself to a complete stranger instead.
Relationships: Kerr Avon/Original Male Character, Kerr Avon/Roj Blake
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Pot Committed

Blake is chewing his fingers again.

Avon eyes him across a crowded room, idly, sat at the bar with a mug of something amber in one hand, the other fondling his full lips with buzzing energy. He looks anxious. Behind him the room is loud and noisy, all crushed velvet and dark satanic red, alive with the noise of people playing, winning, losing, cheating. He wonders if Blake is waiting on a bet. Perhaps he should be at one of those tables chasing fortune as well, but Jenna has taken up residence at the poker table and seems dedicated to clearing the place out – she has a talent for it clearly, and Avon doesn't want to risk being beaten by her. God knows she would never let him forget it. Of course there are any number of other ways he could make money from their trip, but games of chance have never held much appeal to him – it's not much of a victory if you have to rely on luck.

With purpose Avon crosses the room, taking the bar stool next to Blake's, irritated by how his feet dangle an inch from the ground. “You look nervous,” he comments. “Regretting where you've placed your money?”

Blake looks surprised to see him, but shakes his head with minimal antipathy. “I'm not really much of a gambling man,” he says.

Avon scoffs. “You're a political revolutionary,” he says. “You are, by definition, a gambling man.”

To his surprise, Blake, instead of getting annoyed, laughs. “I suppose you're right,” he says. “I've never realy thought about it like that. Still, I only gamble on things that matter.”

“I think you'll find that is the worst possible way to gamble,”Avon tells him, and a smiling Blake nods.

“Anyway, what makes you think I'm nervous?”

“You were biting your fingers,” says Avon. “You always do that when you're nervous.”

“You've noticed that, have you?”

For a second Avon is struck dumb, for reasons he cannot entirely explain. He eyes the bartender standing in front of them, a ginger-haired girl of twenty five or so, who watches the two of them converse with a bemused expression. “I don't suppose, as our beloved leader, you would find it encumbent upon yourself to buy me a drink, would you?”

Blake looks surprised, but smirks shortly afterward. “Given all our money comes from the same source, I don't see much point.” True. Avon is irritated to realise Blake is more practical in regards to money than he is. Jenna will have to be careful how she spends her winnings, lest they destroy this poor planet's economy. “You can have some of mine though, if you like.”

He squints suspiciously. He doesn't see what's in it for Blake to be offering him his drink, but he doesn't want to appear startled by the offer. So Avon takes a gulp of the bubbling gold liquid. He doesn't know what he was expecting, but surely not so much _sugar_.

Avon blinks as he swallows, raising his eyebrows toward Blake expectantly. “I never knew you had a sweet tooth.”

Blake grins. “It's called cider. It's traditional, but hard to find on Earth – the fruit required is very valuable. Would you like more?”

It's odd. Blake, away from Liberator and all the burdens of his self-appointed duty, is not such terrible company. Indeed this conversation is bordering on downright pleasant. Blake's eyes are warm, Avon notes, rich and dark like the soil in spring, and if he didn't know better he would wonder if when Blake offers him 'more', the drink is the only thing he's referencing.

A deep discomfort settles over Avon, and he stands up stiffly. “No, no thank you,” he says, face falling into its usual sneer. “I rather need to use the bathroom, if you don't mind.”

* * *

The bathroom is nothing like the rich furnishings outside, whole and sterile, like a Federation dome. Well at least it's empty. Avon takes a deep breath as he steps inside the cavernous room, adrenaline spiking far more than justified by the situation. Blake wasn't really trying to proposition him, was he? No, how could he be. Why would he want to do such a thing? What could have made him think such interest would be welcome?

If Blake _were_ to proposition him, Avon would undoubtedly reject him without prejudice. What else could he do? H ealready feels like Blake has too much power, how could he give him power over his own body? God knows what he'd do with that.

Avon huffs in frustration, irritated he even has to contemplate these matters. Leave it to Blake to derail what was meant to be a night of rest and relaxation. Well, now he is in the bathroom, he may as well relieve himself, and spare himself the trouble later. It will look less suspicious, less like he fled in terror at the very thought of Blake wanting to fuck him.

He takes one of the stalls – the bathroom is empty enough to justify it, and he prefers not to expose his genitals in public unless it's really unavoidable. He means to just do his business and go, but before he can he hears a knock against the wall.

Avon turns to his left, startled, only to see a hole in the wall between his cubicle and the next. _Oh, damn._ Vila told them this establishment was sleazy, but he didn't realise it was that sleazy.

On some level, Avon is instinctively offended that someone, a total stranger, would even _think_ of asking him for that so crudely. But then he sees a thigh shake nervously on the other side of the wall. Logically, he knows this stranger hasn't asked him for anything – he is simply waiting for whoever comes along, and trying his luck. A gambler, the same as any other patron here. Avon can't fault him for that.

“I assume you're asking for sexual favours?” he says aloud, and takes the choked, strangled noise he hears as consent. He ponders.

Of course, he should walk about without another word, and leave this man to stew in his own pathetic lusts. But then he thinks of Blake – his dark eyes soft and welcoming, ruing the chance he may or may not have been waiting for Avon to give him. It has, admittedly, been awhile. Sex with men should be easier; they won't remind him of Anna– no, he shouldn't think of her here; he doesn't want to sully her memory. Still, sex with a stranger on the other side of a wall may not be his preferred sort of dalliance, but if he doesn't want to complicate shipboard politics by sleeping with his crewmates, what choice does he have?

“Alright.” The word bounces off hollow white walls, and Avon can't quite believe it's his voice he hears saying it.

This stranger gasps, lets out a litany of muffled curses as he unzips himself, hurrying before Avon can change his mind. He freezes when he realises what he has just let himself in for, but the memory of Blake's face spurs him on. Damned if he'll back down now.

He isn't shy, the starnger, as men who cruise for sex at glory holes tend not to be, and Avon is startled when he pushes his cock through the hole without another word. But he shouldn't be. Gingerly, he runs his fingers across the head, already just a little sticky. It's been a long time since he touched a cock other than his own – less long since he saw one. The London had communal showers, see, he could scarcely avoid them there. He even saw Blake's. This man is a lot smaller than Blake – Blake's was something absurd, threatening, exciting. It was hard not to stare.

It's not as if he thought this man could be Blake, pursuing another route into his pants after having his first attempt rebuffed. It's just, he wondered....

The stranger has clearly been waiting awhile, and Avon opts not to tease, closing his fingers around the length and rewarding him with firm, solid strokes. A gasp, a moan, and a drop of fluid drips onto the inside of his wrist. Avon eyes it, bites his lip. He heat of a cock in his hand is undeniably arousing. He forgot just how much it turns him on.

He thinks of Blake again, waiting by the bar, wondering where he's disappeared to. There's no reason for him to be suspicious. And if he was, what business is it of his?

The man on the other side of the wall seems grateful for all he can get, but after her came all this way, he was probably expecting more than a cold hand. Avon hasn't done this in awhile, but he should remember the technique. His clothing clings and creaks as he slides to his knees; leather can be more aesthetic than practical.

A hot rush of pre-come on his tongue sets his blood fizzing; he likes the taste, he forgot that too. The man moans shallowly as Avon laps at him like a cat with cream. He uses one hand to hold the man's cock where he wants it, while with the other he absentmindedly starts to stroke and squeeze between his legs. There's no denying how turned on he is – it must be the depravity of the situation, the thought he is doing something he never would under other circumstances. Novelty is always exciting.

What would Blake think, if he knew why Avon had vanished? Would he be shocked? Appalled? Intrigued? Or would he shrug it aside, decide with unbearable magnanimity that how Avon gets his kicks is none of his business, so long as he does what he's told the rest of the time?

Avon shakes that thought away and slides his lips fully over the cock against his mouth, groaning loudly as he does so. There's no use stretching this out. The man shudders and gasps, bails audibly scratching against the wall, but he keeps his hips lock-steady, not daring to thrust. No doubt, he doesn't want to scare Avon off. Good.

If he went to bed with Blake, Blake would, undoubtedly, use him as he saw fit, as he does in every other situation. He wouldn't be cruel or harsh about it – that wouldn't fit his self-perception, the idea of him as this noble leader of men. He would simply act, confident in the knowledge that no matter how Avon protested, he would never truly say no.

He moans as he swallows the cock down further, until he struggles not to gag, fumbling to unzip his tight leather trousers with one hand. Better he come here and now, on the sterile floor of an alien bathroom, than he let Blake think he has a chance of owning him that way. Better anything than to be Blake's–

A gasp, and Avon is startled to find his mouth flooded with bitter semen, almost choking him. He does his best to swallow, but it's messy, and as the man pulls way from him a trail of come slides across his jaw. “Fuck,” says the stranger, speaking aloud for the first time, voice sharp and anxious. “Sorry, I mean – thank you – I mean – bye.”

Avon is dumbstruck as the man rushes out of there, fastening his zip and exiting without even bothering to wash his hands first. Slowly, his cheeks start to burn as he realises what's happened: that he's been used for sex and then abandoned within seconds. Whether from anger or shame, who can say.

He wraps his hand tighter around his cock – now he's started, he sees no reason to stop. Still, it feels infinitely more pathetic to be masturbating all alone on the bathroom floor than to be pleasuring someone else there. Blake would never leave like that. He would insist on repaying any favour given him, and hence, convince himself he wasn't using Avon at all.

When Avon comes, he's forgotten all about the stranger on the other side of the wall. He's thinking about Blake.

* * *

When Avon exits, a wave of sound hits him, and it takes his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness of the gambling den. It seems so different out here.

Across the room is Blake, exactly where Avon left him, still nursing that cider of his. The lingering sweetness of it mixes oddly with a stranger's sour come at the back of Avon's throat. He should just ignore Blake, teleport back to Liberator and get some sleep, but instead he finds himself drawn toward him like an asteroid caught in a great star's orbit.

With every step he takes, he feels worse. His aging knees ache from having been knelt upon so long, and he starts to worry that Blake will see his swollen lips, will notice some skerrick of semen he didn't manage to clean away, will take one look at him and just know. And he shouldn't even care what Blake thinks of him, but–

Rationally, Avon knows no-one has done anything to him, made him do anything, that he did not want to, offer to. Irrationally, he feels degraded. And he feels like it's Blake who's degraded him.

“Ah, there you are,” Blake says as he looks up at him, apparently ignorant. “You were gone awhile, I was starting to wonder.”

Avon grins cruelly, shields slotting back into place automatically. “Well, there are thrills on offer here other than gambling.”

A pause. He sees a flash of realisation in Blake's eyes, but then the other man hurriedly looks away. “I suppose that's your business,” he mutters, and takes a long drink.

Avon stares, bile rising at the back of his throat. In a stunning turn of events, this evening has left him frustrated and unsatisfied.


End file.
